drovers, dirty, uncouth men from whom she shrank instinctively stared down at her as she sat on her seat, then went to get their drink, talking in unabated tones. All was big and violent about her.
"Whose child met that be?" they asked of the barman.
"It belongs to Tom Brangwen."
The child sat on in neglect, watching the door for her father. He never came; many, many men came, but not he, and she sat like a shadow. She knew one did not cry in such a place. And every man looked at her inquisitively, she shut herself away from them.
A deep, gathering coldness of isolation took hold on her. He was never coming back. She sat on, frozen, unmoving.
When she had become blank and timeless he came, and she slipped off her seat to him, like one come back from the dead. He had sold his beast as quickly as he could. But all the business was not finished. He took her again through the hurtling welter of the cattle-market.
Then at last they turned and went out through the gate. He was always hailing one man or another, always stopping to gossip about land and cattle and horses and other things she did not understand, standing in the filth and the smell, among the legs and great boots of men. And always she heard the questions:
"What lass is that, then? I didn't know tha'd one o' that age."
"It belongs to my missis."
Anna was very conscious of her derivation from her mother, in the end, and of her alienation.
But at last they were away, and Brangwen went with her into a little dark, ancient eating-house in the Bridlesmith-Gate. They had cow's-tail soup, and meat and cabbage and potatoes. Other men, other people, came into the dark, vaulted place, to eat. Anna was wide-eyed and silent with wonder.
Then they went into the big market, into the corn exchange, then to shops. He bought her a little book off a stall. He loved buying things, odd things that he thought would be useful. Then they went to the Black Swan, and she drank milk and he brandy, and they harnessed the horse and drove off, up the Derby Road.
She was tired out with wonder and marvelling. But the next day, when she thought of it, she skipped, flipping her leg in the odd dance she did, and talked the whole time of what had happened to her, of what she had seen. It lasted her all the week. And the next Saturday she was eager to go again.
She became a familiar figure in the cattle-market, sitting waiting in the little booth. But she liked best to go to Derby. There her father had more friends. And she liked the familiarity of the smaller town, the nearness of the river, the strangeness that did not frighten her, it was so much smaller. She liked the covered-in market, and the old women. She liked the George Inn, where her father put up. The landlord was Brangwen's old friend, and Anna was made much of. She sat many a day in the cosy parlour talking to Mr. Wigginton, a fat man with red hair, the landlord. And when the farmers all gathered at twelve o'clock for dinner, she was a little heroine.
At first she would only glower or hiss at these strange men with their uncouth accent. But they were good-humoured. She was a little oddity, with her fierce, fair hair like spun glass sticking out in a flamy halo round the apple-blossom face and the black eyes, and the men liked an oddity. She kindled their attention.
She was very angry because Marriott, a gentleman-farmer from Ambergate, called her the little pole-cat.
"Why, you're a pole-cat," he said to her.
"I'm not," she flashed.
"You are. That's just how a pole-cat goes."
She thought about it.
"Well, you're—you're——" she began.
"I'm what?"
She looked him up and down.
"You're a bow-leg man."
Which he was. There was a roar of laughter. They loved her that she was indomitable.
"Ah," said Marriott. "Only a pole-cat says that."
"Well, I am a pole-cat," she flamed.
There was another roar of laughter from the men.
They loved to tease her.
"Well, me little maid," Braithwaite would say to her, "an' how's th' lamb's wool?"
He gave a tug at a glistening, pale piece of her hair.
"It's not lamb's wool," said Anna, indignantly putting back her offended lock.
"Why, what'st ca' it then?"
"It's hair."
"Hair! Wheriver dun they rear that sort?"
"Wheriver dun they?" she asked, in dialect, her curiosity overcoming her.
Instead of answering he shouted with joy. It was the triumph, to make her speak dialect.
She had one enemy, the man they called Nut-Nat, or Nat-Nut, a cretin, with inturned feet, who came flap-lapping along, shoulder jerking up at every step. This poor creature sold nuts in the public-houses where he was known. He had no roof to his mouth, and the men used to mock his speech.
The first time he came into the George when Anna was there, she asked, after he had gone, her eyes very round:
"Why does he do that when he walks?"
"'E canna 'elp 'isself, Duckie, it's th' make o' th' fellow."
She thought about it, then she laughed nervously. And then she bethought herself, her cheeks flushed, and she cried:
"He's a horrid man."
"Nay, he's non horrid; he canna help it if he wor struck that road."
But when poor Nat came wambling in again, she slid away. And she would not eat his nuts, if the men bought them for her. And when the farmers gambled at dominoes for them, she was angry.
"They are dirty-man's nuts," she cried.
So a revulsion started against Nat, who had not long after to go to the workhouse.
There grew in Brangwen's heart now a secret desire to make her a lady. His brother Alfred, in Nottingham, had caused a great scandal by becoming the lover of an educated woman, a lady, widow of a doctor. Very often, Alfred Brangwen went down as a friend to her cottage, which was in Derbyshire, leaving his wife and family for a day or two, then returning to them. And no-one dared gainsay him, for he was a strong-willed, direct man, and he said he was a friend of this widow.
One day Brangwen met his brother on the station.
"Where are you going to, then?" asked the younger brother.
"I'm going down to Wirksworth."
"You've got friends down there, I'm told."
"Yes."
"I s'll have to be lookin'
